


What You'd Do for Freedom

by theplushfrog



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-15
Updated: 2008-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplushfrog/pseuds/theplushfrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius Black desired freedom above all things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cage of Blood and Bruises

_1976, Summer_

"You will not disobey us, Sirius Orion Black!"

He had heard those words once too many. He had heard them in the Howler he got after the news of his sorting into Gryffindor made its way home. He had heard them when news of his choice of friends was snuck home by snide whispers from cousins. He heard them when he had chosen to stay at Hogwarts over the hols instead of come home. He had heard them when he had snuck away to James's house last summer.

Now those words had no power over him.

Only the strong hands that held him fast kept him from disobeying once again.

His mother's hands, clawlike and cruel, gripped his arm so tight that he could feel her nails biting into his skin and drawing blood.

She wouldn't let him get away.

Not while he shared her blood.  _Toujour purs_. Always pure… by any means necessary.

* * *

He woke up on the cold concrete.

His clothes were torn and wet. Wet? Oh yea, the blood. His blood. Well the floor could just keep  _that_.

The reason he was laying here, bruised and torn, in the cellar was his damned blood.

They weren't going to let him out until he agreed to go along with their bigoted pureblood stupidness.

Well, let them see how long they could hold him down here.

Sitting up slowly, he checked his pockets gingerly, trying not to touch the bruises and cuts under his red-stained trousers.

They'd taken his wand.

Damn.

He shuffled himself into a better position, gently checking all his limbs for breaks or anything he'd need to fix right away. Thankfully, he had learned a small wandless spell that helped speed up healing.

But that spell wasn't any good for the deep cut on the side of his leg.

He pinched the skin together, wrapping it in a cloth and holding the wound closed, hoping it wouldn't get infected before he stole his wand back.

Now, to figure out how they had booby-trapped the cellar this time so he could escape.

* * *

Edging carefully through the tunnel, meant for the house-elves but rarely used, he couldn't help but hiss in pain as he accidently put his weight on a knee that was probably sprained from getting into the tunnel.

His mother had thrown him down in the cellar many times before. Sometimes after a beating. Sometimes before. Either way, the cellar meant pain.

He lifted the hatch of the tunnel, peering out. No one was nearby. Matter of fact, it was dark out now. Crap… How long had he been stuck down there?

Touching the knotted cloth around his leg, he wondered how much blood he had lost, apparently enough to merit being lightheaded and dizzy. He scrambled out under the cover of the bushes, wincing as the weedy branches poked into his bruises and cuts. He had to get out of here. Maybe James would-

He paused. The thought had caught him off guard, but now that he'd thought of it… He could actually do that. He could actually run away.

No more screaming fights, no more bruises… no more bloody cellars.

He could leave. He could leave and never come back.

Glancing up at the house, he struggled to his feet. But first, he had some things to finish.

* * *

He arrived, like a red-streaked ragged mutt, on the Potter doorstep around eight in the morning

He had filled his trunk with his meager possessions along with a few stolen items that the rest of the Blacks probably wouldn't notice until years later. Disregarding the decreed of underage wizardry as always, he'd been discovered by mother as he placed the last permanence charms on his walls, which were littered with photos and pictures…

Things he would have gotten lashed out of his skin later, if he had stayed.

He didn't want his family to just write him off, like they had so many others.

Now they had something from him that was stuck there forever. They couldn't get rid of his presence even if they tried.

Still… he had barely escaped.

Mother had caught him fast. She knew his plans from the sight of his trunk, packed and ready. She made him watch as she blasted his name from the tapestry, than had tried to blast him into a black smudge just the same as the fabric.

Mr. Potter answered the door, yelling aloud when he saw the state of the teen on his doorstep.

His eyes were watery. He wasn't crying. He just had something in his eyes. That was all.

He hadn't wanted to be part of the Black bloodline anyway.

It was a good thing he had been erased from their history.

He wanted nothing to do with them.

…But still tears streaked through the clotted blood on his face.

The tears didn't stop, even when James, shocked as he was, grabbed him close and tight in a hug meant for brothers of something more then flesh.

The tears didn't stop until long after he had finally passed out on the cot in the guest room, with James snoring on the nearby armchair.

He woke to the healing presence of a real family ready to accept their new son.

The Blacks might have crafted his blood from theirs, but the Potters had crafted his soul from the once small and painful thing it had once been.


	2. Cage of Stone and Shadow

_1981, Halloween_

He stood there and laughed.

His laugh was a twisted sound that erupted from his grief-stricken throat.

James was dead. Brother of his soul.

Dead.

Now, so was Peter. The bastard.

He just laughed. His grieving joy splintering into a sound of pure madness.

* * *

Then they threw him in with the Shadows.

And he would laugh, his deformed and twisted laugh, more.

* * *

He wasn't mad.

Miracles do happen, just not any big enough to matter, he supposed, then winced. Grief fracturing his soul and for a long moment he couldn't breathe for the pain.

Shadows around him danced, sweeping along the corners of his sight, all haunting faces and clawed hands. He would never again be able to see a cloth in the wind and not wince in memory.

He learned to control his own thoughts, because if he didn't, the Shadows controlled him. They would suck out his happiness, his memories, his soul—if he let Them.

He never let himself be controlled. Not if he could help it.

* * *

If he didn't think of Remus, They couldn't take the werewolf from him.

There were a lot of things he Couldn't Think About.

And only one thought he allowed himself to nurse: the thought of Innocence.

The world thought  _he_  had killed James. The same way he had killed the bastard Rat. His bittersweet knowledge of his own Innocence was what kept him sane.

In a way… he had killed James. After all, it had been  _his_  idea to use Peter as the Secret Keeper.

…But that was a thing he Couldn't Think About, lest he go mad.

The Shadows danced around their prey. Soon he would give in, they crooned. Soon.

* * *

Things were made easier when he realized They hadn't taken Padfoot from him.

Dogs' thoughts were less complicated then humans' and the Shadows left him, thinking They had sucked him dry, and seeked newer more filling prey.

As a dog, he could think about more things. Things that he Couldn't Think About as a human.

Any thought of Remus was still Not to Think About though.

A spark of memory of the werewolf brought the Shadows down upon him, dog or not.

* * *

Six months in, or so he could count by his marks on the stones, he realized that he was losing his language.

It was a disturbing thought, that he could lose the ability to understand words.

He began to talk aloud to himself.

He didn't care if he sounded mad. They had taken the world from him and only barely failed to take his mind from him as well. They wouldn't take his words from him.

* * *

The prison guards (not that there were many) proved well to help him keep his language. He spoke politely to them when they did their rounds.

Most ignored him, thinking him mad as the rest.

The few that responded did so in short curt manners.

But that didn't matter. As long as they responded.

Proving he still existed in this world was helped slightly every time someone spoke back to him. Even if it was only to curse his existence.

At least he had an existence to curse still.

* * *

He had lost track of time.

He didn't remember how long ago he had lost count, but he had.

This disturbed him. He didn't know what day it was anymore. He didn't know when to say happy birthday to Harry, or when to mourn for—no, that is Not to Be Thought About.

He saw a man in a strange uniform walk by his cage. It took a moment to calm his thoughts. That was not a uniform. That man was not a guard, nor a prisoner. The simple change of clothes, the shock of color, had scattered his mind to the wind. Such a simple thing, yet… it caused such a reaction in him, part of him mused darkly.

Controlling and stilling his reeling mind with practiced care, he called out to the man, as he was always apt to do. "Oi! What day's it?"

The man looked sharply at him. Most of the other prisoners had gone silent in their mad murmurings, in apparent fear of the man glaring at him. The short man's eyes studied him for a moment, before a sharp movement and a reply scattered his mind again, "Look for yourself, Black." The man snapped irritably.

Steeling himself back into his mind, he knelt to find a newspaper at his feet. The sharp movement must have been the paper being tossed to him. He hadn't realized how he had become accustomed to the eerie sweeping movements of the Shadows.

The paper stood out against the crumbling grey stone. It's impossibly white appearance shocked his eyes for a moment before he could make out the dark words and images across its surface.

Gingerly, he picked up the paper—and in a utterly familiar, yet oh so foreign, movement—opened it to the sports section.

Snorting to himself, he flipped back to the front. The date stood stock at the top, and for a long moment, it was all he could do to stare at it.

Eight years?

Had it truly been that long?

Harry would be turning nine soon, he remembered suddenly, wincing before he realized that the Shadows hadn't descended on him.

His movements were slow and sluggish, he realized, as he turned to face the sharply robed man, who was still watching him with dark eyes.

That's right, the guards and the few who worked here, had ways of keeping the Shadows at bay. He was safe, for the moment, as long at the man didn't leave. Which was probably for the best, as many thing he Couldn't Think About surfaced in his mind as he glanced back down at the starch white paper.

Letters confused him for a few minutes before he could puzzle them into words again. It had been so long since he had read anything. They were taking something from him again, and had almost taken it fully. He steeled himself from letting a shudder run through his gangly, thin frame. He couldn't let Them take his letters too. They already had taken too much from him.

But the man was still watching him, such a response from another human being made him long and crave human contact and relations. It was all he could do to meet the man's eyes and lift the paper up. "You want it back, Messer?" He said with a smirk that stretched his face awkwardly. Facial expressions were strange to him now.

The man finally let up on his gaze, shaking his head. "Keep it, Black. Not like you can use anything in it from inside Azkaban." With that, the man turned and left.

He shuddered visibly this time, as the cold swept back in. Instantly, he locked down his mind, letting the paper fall to the ground as he scurried to the farthest corner of the room.

When the cold retreated slightly, he drifted over and took the paper from the stone floor, pausing for a moment and jerking his arms up and down in sharp controlled movements, testing his dulled reflexes.

They couldn't take anymore from him. He wasn't going to let Them.

* * *

He read and re-read the paper far too many times until he felt his ability to read had returned.

The man returned months later and after a short and terse conversation, tossed him another paper, watched him, than left again.

He returned every few months. It took a few visits for the man to correct him when he called the wizard "Messer" a few too many times: "I'm the Minister of Magic, now, Black. You'd be best to remember that."

At least he knew now why the other prisoners clammed up around the little man.

Still, the man brought to him clearer thought from the lack of Shadows, the introduction of new text to study, and vague offering of human conversation.

He told the Minister that he had missed the crossword most.

* * *

Padfoot was his one safety blanket: something to protect him, but also something to be protected.

He had to remember to Change whenever anyone came near.

Dogs were naturally happy creatures. He had to make sure not to be too happy, or he would attract the Shadows, regardless of his form. But as a dog, he could let himself relax more. His mind was less tangled and cracked as a dog—or maybe it was more tangled and cracked, he could never tell—either way he could survive better through the days as a dog then he could as a human.

Whenever he wasn't reading, speaking, or hiding, he was Padfoot.

His Innocence kept him sane, Padfoot kept him alive.

* * *

It was much later—twelve years later—that he found his reason.

A typical visit from the Minister and his typical witty retort earned him his typical  _Daily Prophet_  paper, complete with crossword.

But the photo he found inside was not typical at all.

 _Peter_. Wormtail was alive. Peter was alive.

But—he had killed Peter… hadn't he?

He stared at the photo for a long time, watching the rat paw with missing toes wave from the shoulder of the black and white picture.

He couldn't help but replay the scene in his mind over and over.

No matter how many times he remembered it, it was still pure torture to even think of anything during that time period.

Still, he remembered something he hadn't noted before. The sewer cap had been left askew, the blood trailing to it—not, as he had thought before, just simply draining down that path.

He had always known that the spell he used hadn't killed all those Muggles, but he had thought that it had just been Peter's spell backfiring, a necessary evil that had come with Peter's murder.

But…Peter had escaped. He realized now that the bastard rat had purposefully publically accused him, blown up everything around them both, using the distraction to cut his finger off, Change into Wormtail, and escape down the sewer. Peter had known that he would be too grief-stricken after seeing Ja—after seeing the house and he wouldn't be able to think well enough to realize what had happened.

Harry.

He sat up with a jolt.

Harry didn't know about Peter. No one did.

Harry wasn't safe as long as Peter was with the Weasley boy.

The Weasley boy went to Hogwarts with Harry.

Harry wasn't safe as long as Peter was at Hogwarts.

Peter was at Hogwarts…

This time, he really would kill the bastard.

* * *

He waited several days for the perfect time to escape. As Padfoot, he was skinny enough to get through the bars when They came to him with food. The Shadows wouldn't notice him as long as he wasn't human. All that mattered was sneaking past the human guards.

But humans didn't voluntarily stay at Azkaban any longer then they had to, so it wasn't long before the prison was left to the Shadows, trusting Them to make sure no one escaped.

The hardest part was the swim.

He hadn't had much exercise for the last twelve years and even his natural doggy paddle became a struggle after awhile. But he wasn't going to let freedom slip through his fingers—erm…paws—like that.

Hauling his shaking muscles out of the freezing cold water, he let out a doggy huff and collapsed on the shore in a tense, over-exhausted pile of shaggy canine.

His last thought, before sleep claimed him, was that he was finally free again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is supposed to be disjointed and rambling. It shows Sirius's unraveling mind and the terror he went through in prison. When he refers to the 'Shadows' those are Dementors, he also refers to them as 'Them' or 'They'. Also, I fear I should have mentioned this in the first chapter, but this story is made to flow like thoughts straight from Sirius's mind, and when you think to yourself, you don't say your own name. If a 'he' anywhere in the story seems vague or disconnected with the sentence, it's probably Sirius talking about himself.


	3. Cage of Madness and Memories

_1994, Summer_

It was still strange to him, that he didn't have to guard his thoughts anymore. He didn't have to de-rail certain trains of thought or avoid using certain phrases. He didn't have to block out any memory of the things that he Couldn't Think About Before.

Remus.

He felt bad that he had purposefully not thought about Remus for twelve whole years. Now that he could think about the werewolf, he found his memories stale and fading.

So he trailed along after Remus whenever he could, trying to heal his thoughts and memories.

He couldn't heal everything. He still spent whole days as Padfoot, huddled in a corner, afraid to think for all the Shadows haunting him.

Remus would often find him like this and carry him to the couch, letting Padfoot sit with him as he read his many books. Remus was warm and often would distractedly scritch Padfoot's ears. Sitting next to the werewolf helped prove to himself that this wasn't just another fragmented dream, doomed to be gone in the morning.

He found that at first, the only times he could sleep without the nightmares was when he drifted off against Remus's warm shoulder on the couch.

It seemed like his mind, which had been carefully controlled over the long years, when offered the option to be free, had shattered into many pieces. Remus seemed happy to help him pick up the pieces and begin to heal.

At times, he felt bad that it had been Harry and not Remus that had finally drove him from Azkaban when he had been able to escape the whole time.

* * *

It rarely seemed easy to live now.

The past constantly overflowed onto the present and he could barely make sense of anything.

It didn't help he was stuck  _here_  of all places.

Sometimes he felt like he had been simply shuffled from one cage to another.

Harry and Remus were the only things that kept his mind from splintering further, but often they were the ones who caused the factures in the first place.

Harry looked  _so much_  like Ja—so much like… no, he could think of such things now… James. Harry looked so much like James that he constantly mistook the son for the father. It was always Harry's eyes that lured him back to the present. James had always had kind, joking, warm hazel eyes. Harry may have James's look, but he had Lily's eyes—bright, curious, delightful, but they were also cautious and guarded with heavy secrets, emotions Lily's eyes had never held for more then a spare second.

Remus… Moony was Moony. It still shocked him now and then to look into the face of his packmate and see… how  _old_  he was inside. Remus had aged so much more then the werewolf should have.

He felt bad, because it was his fault. He hadn't been there to soften things, to comfort and take comfort in from his packmate. He hadn't been there to mourn with Moony for James, or explain his apparent betrayal.

He stilled his mind, a matter that should have been easy, but took much longer now that his mental wounds had opened fresh in attempt to heal them.

He had to stop dwelling on the past.

He was here  _now_ , and nothing he could do could ease the haunting knowledge of Before. He could only hope he did better this time around.

* * *

Dumbledore wouldn't let him outside.

Remus would barely let him talk to Harry anymore.

Everything was closing in again and he felt like running for the corners, huddling there until the Shadows lost interest in him.

He was still a wanted man and wasn't allowed to do anything or go anywhere by Dumbledore's orders.

He was still having trouble separating the past from the present and Remus had told him off far too many times for talking to Harry like he was James.

It was driving him mad.

Well, mad _der_ anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This all takes place AFTER the bit in the Third Book. Part of this chapter is during Sirius's stay with Remus and then during his stay in Grimmauld Place. It's supposed to be even more disjointed then the last chapter, showing his degrading mind, torn anew with grief he never allowed himself to feel inside Azkaban.


	4. Cage of Valiance and Veils

_1997, Spring_

Harry had been lured away from safety by a false him. He couldn't just sit and obey Dumbledore's orders like any common mutt.

He snuck out and followed, knowing this was a time they needed him anyway.

But it was a mistake.

He really can't make small mistakes, can he? First with Gryffindor (not a mistake to him, but to his parents), then with Snape, the biggest being Peter, and this was not looking to being anything small scale either.

Protecting Harry in the midst of the battle was something he could do. Blasting hexes and curses, shielding Harry and others against wayward spells, he was born for this sort of dueling.

Of course, on his moment of shining valiance, his old cousin played a dirty trick.

Bellatrix knew he would guard the others with his life.

She simply chose to take advantage of it.

Firing off a spell too fast to shield, but headed straight for an unprotected youth, she cackled delightfully when he dove in the spell's way and stumbled backwards.

Backwards into the Veil.

Backwards into the whispered voices

Backwards into his unfortunate destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last three chapters were originally written as one, but they seem to work better, logically, as separate chapters. Of course, I wrote this whole story in basically one sitting.. the only exception being the first chapter, which was actually written last.


	5. Cage of Destiny and Death

This cage, he'll find, is something you can't escape.

For no man can escape his final destiny in death.

Not even for he who was so good at breaking out of even the most inescapable cages.

Cages without padlocks or keys, cages that only sheer force of will and a strong desire for freedom can overcome. Cages of mind, body, and soul. Cages of life.

Of course, though, the Cage of Destiny and Death is not really a cage itself, but a grand escape itself.

It's where he will find the truest meaning of long fought for freedom.


End file.
